Casting Shadows
by Elise May
Summary: It's late and Lavinia is tired. The two of them are locked together in the corner of the room, and she turns to him, and she says, "If he could just admit the truth, all four of us might have a chance."
1. October, 1938

_Hello! And a happy new year to all! I hope 2015 will be everything you wish for it to be and more. _

_This story is a series of glimpses into the lives of the Crawleys and the Carlisles, written in a non-chronological order, and following the canon of the show up until episode eight of series two. It is inspired by the music of Sleeping At Last (I would definitely listen to South__ if I were you) and as it is my first published piece of Downton Abbey fanfiction, I am rather nervous to post it. I hope you won't find it too terrible!_

_I own nothing in this chapter or any of the chapters following it. Enjoy! _

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><p><span><strong>October, 1938<strong>

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><p>It is a service fit for any Countess, but perhaps not for one in possession of the Grantham name. The church, which now stands tall behind the widower – a dark shadow cast in the late morning sun – had been full in appearance but empty with feeling, mirroring the man Matthew fears he will now become. After all, grief is heavy to carry on two shoulders, especially when one is so used to sharing the weight of it over four.<p>

A shaky breath escapes his lips. He is standing over his wife's final resting place, but there is an eerie calm about him, an inner peace he welcomes with arms that are open when they ought to be closed. Lavinia had been the one to die because Lavinia had been the good one, the strong one, the one who hadn't deserved any of it. The cancer had been quick, God had been unjust, and yet there is a small part of him that feels as if this is the way it was always supposed to happen.

He closes his eyes.

Matthew feels her presence before he sees it. His heart skips multiple beats and there is a breathlessness caught in the back of his throat, from which he loses the ability to speak. His eyes open slowly, blinking against the cold light of day, to find Mary standing beside him. Her skin is like paper, pale and thin, her body shrouded in black, and there is a look in her eyes resembling that of a wounded animal.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says. Her words are hollow.

The silence is broken and Mary watches Matthew as he flinches. She speaks in such a way because she does not trust herself to say anything more; apologies and confessions long since buried beneath the continuity of life are on the tip of her tongue, and now is most certainly not the time to be honest in the way in which her soul cries for her to be.

Her coldness is the most natural thing about her. The sun is warm on her back and it makes her angry, for Lavinia will never feel such warmth again.

Before he replies, Matthew has to swallow bile. When he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically hoarse and he nods his head in understanding, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Thank you."

They are numb in equal measure. Perfectly still and perfectly composed.

She can't stop herself from staring at him. His handsome features are impervious to age, but his jaw is set. His eyes are glassy with unspent tears and they are black around the edges due to a lack of sleep. His shoulders are slummed, his back bent, and stubble is visible against cheeks which have a complete lack of colour to them. Despite herself, Mary feels the urge to reach forward and run her fingers through his greying hair, to pat it flat and tame his unruly curls, even though it is not her job to do so. Even though this has not stopped her from doing so in the past.

She settles for his hand instead, her fingers a ghost of a touch, and his whole body quivers at the contact.

"If you ever need anything—"

He pulls his hand away before she can finish and there is a desperate longing in her eyes, as brown as his are blue. Her own hand falls limply by her side and she stares absently at it. Time is beginning to catch up with her. Her veins are now visible beneath porcelain skin, which is less smooth than it once had been, and it makes her feel so terribly old. She is beyond the point of exhaustion these days, often wondering what it would be like to sleep and sleep and never wake up.

Her heart clenches painfully as he notices her staring and turns his face away from her. She then swallows, her eyes – misty from his rejection – shifting to the soil at her feet.

"I won't come to you, that's for sure," says Matthew.

She waits a moment, considering the bitterness of his tone, before a strangled, "_Good_," escapes her lips and it surprises her how much she means it.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, even if it is not entirely unwelcome. Lavinia may be at peace, but Matthew is not; and if Matthew is not, neither is Mary. The latter sighs with thoughts of the former, and then the wind picks up and she is taken with it to church, to all of the christenings and the weddings and the funerals where she'd cried _Oh, Matthew_ and he hadn't cried anything at all.

She is interrupted from her rather turbulent line of thought by the rustling of leaves behind them. There is a third figure approaching and she lets her body sag when she realises that their time is up. There is an expected hand on the small of her back before she can step away from such advances, and she finds herself almost leaning into it. She's grateful for that hand because it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lord Grantham."

Matthew immediately turns his head to the sound of Richard's voice. He is cool and calm, the poised gentleman wearing the wrong attire, even after all of this time. Mary stands between them; a rose nestled between two thorns. Her husband is a man of almost sixty, but his ruthless streak has never strayed far from him and it is obvious that his words contain little compassion, if any at all. He is clinging to propriety as if it is still all he knows when it comes to matters of the heart.

Life has taught her that people don't change, their circumstances change around them.

"Thank you," says Matthew.

Richard thinks for a moment.

"How is Lady Catherine?" he asks and his voice could be considered soft. It is softer than Mary's had been, at least. "She seemed a little distraught during the service, though it was nicely done. Lavinia would've liked it, I think. The simplicity of it all was rather like her."

Mary visibly flinches. From Richard's lips, this is a compliment. To Matthew's ears, it is anything but.

"My mother is taking Lady Catherine back to the house," he says. His voice is completely void of emotion. "You must remember, Sir Richard, that she is an eighteen year old girl who has just lost the only mother she will ever have. I think she has earned the right to be a little distraught, don't you?"

"_Of course_," comes too quickly from Mary's lips and a hand is on Matthew's arm before she can even think to stop it.

Even though she is not looking at him, Mary can feel Matthew's eyes on her and they burn with great intensity. She is not the only one to notice this, however, because Richard has increased the pressure of his hand against her back, forcing her to remove the arm of the younger man from her grasp. She does so quickly, but Matthew is slow and reluctant to remove his eyes from her face.

"Well," says Richard. "We'll leave you to your grief."

Mary turns to him, perplexed.

"Richard, I don't think—"

"We're going home, Mary," he says, daring her to argue with him by narrowing his eyes. "We are of no use to _our_ children in a boneyard."

She is sure that she has imagined the emphasis that is put on the word _our_, but then she notices that Matthew has tensed beside her, a deep frown creasing his already worn brow, and her stomach turns itself over. She feels sick.

Richard's lips curve into a small, triumphant smirk at how defeated they both look. And rightly so.

"Goodbye, Cousin Matthew," says Mary, the title a cold comfort against trembling lips.

Matthew exhales heavily and is surprised by the sudden, overwhelming need to feel Lavinia's hand in his – warm and soft and _alive_. He blinks tears from his eyes as he wills his aching heart to slow. To still. To _stop_.

Four have become three and he has become one.

"Goodbye, Cousin Mary." He waits a beat. "Sir Richard."

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><p><em>Thank you for reading! Thoughts so far?<em>


	2. May, 1919

_Thank you so much for your words of encouragement! I feel much better posting this now that I know people are interested. You cannot know how grateful I am for your support. __Whilst I know it may seem very unlikely at the moment, I promise you that this story will eventually __have a happy ending. There's just quite an unhappy middle to contend with first._

_This is another short chapter, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless!_

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><p><span><strong>May, 1919<strong>

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><p>"I thought I told you to steer clear of May."<p>

The Dowager Countess' voice cuts through the noise of the Great Hall.

She is standing in her place at centre stage, surveying the chaos that is going on around her with an impassive expression veiling her face. The ladies of the house – excluding Cora, but including Isobel and Lavinia – are to her left and right, exchanging knowing glances and smirks they do well to keep hidden. Violet sighs, leaning heavily against her cane as servants continue to hurry past them; carrying flower arrangements she will no doubt have to make amendments to, presents she knows neither bride nor groom will appreciate in the way future aristocrats should.

Lavinia, knowing that she has been addressed directly, is a mere rabbit caught in the headlights, and so it is up to Isobel to speak on her behalf. She takes over without complaint.

"They did, originally," she replies. "But an April wedding couldn't possibly have gone ahead with the spread of flu so rampant. I thought you of all people would be able to understand that."

She gives the stairs behind her a pointed look.

"How is Cousin Cora, by the way?"

Violet huffs, the exhalation of breath unladylike if passed from another's lips. She leaves the question hanging mid-air.

"They could've at least waited until June," she points out.

As usual, she has the last word on the matter.

"_Marry in the month of May, and you'll surely rue the day_," recalls Edith, smiling slightly to herself. The other women wonder where she is going with this. "The poem it's taken from is part of Irish folklore. I think it is complete nonsense, but it seems that some people—" She pauses at the way Violet is openly staring at her, as if she cannot believe her ears. "—take Bridget Haggerty's words as an actuality rather than a suggestion."

Nobody quite knows what to say to that, but Edith's rambling appears to have built some confidence in Lavinia. It isn't long before she speaks, her voice very nearly excited.

"Oh, I see," she says. "If that's the case, shouldn't the poem be relayed to Sybil?" _Instead of me_ is thought and not heard. "She's the one who'll be marrying an Irishman, after all!"

Sybil immediately brightens at the thought of her upcoming nuptials. It makes a refreshing change for her wedding to be spoken of fondly rather than with scorn, but it does not escape her knowledge – or Lavinia's, for that matter – that the rest of the group have stiffened at the very mention of it. Sybil swallows. It is Lavinia who unwittingly makes matters worse by asking, "Will the wedding be held in Ireland?"

Sybil is acutely aware of everybody's eyes on her and a small blush begins to form on her cheeks at all of the unwanted attention. She's angry, knowing that the reason they make their disapproval so known is because they want her to feel ashamed of her decision, but they can't force her to feel what she never will.

It is her inner tempestuousness that causes her to trip over her words.

"Well, Tom and I—"

She is interrupted.

"No, it most certainly will not," declares Violet. And to emphasise her point, she stomps her stick firmly on the ground in protest, the look on her face that of a spoiled child.

It is hard enough for her to come to terms with the fact that her youngest granddaughter is to marry a servant _(a former servant, Granny; Tom's a journalist now). _The least the girl can do for her is marry him in her own country and with her own family present. Those terms do not seem unreasonable to her.

To Sybil, however, they simply add insult to injury. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from opening her mouth and screaming, but before she can do anything too unseemly, she meets the kind eyes of Isobel. The older woman has watched this sorry scene unfurl with surprising restraint and is currently thinking of something diplomatic to say. She eventually decides on:

"Regardless of where the ceremony will be held, I hope I can expect an invitation."

She then flashes Sybil an affectionate smile. Sybil returns it, glad that someone appears to be on her side.

"Why, of course, Cousin Isobel!" she replies. "I would love to have you there."

"And I would love to _be_ there!"

Violet resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well, then," she says.

And they move on to more pressing matters.

"Do you think your wedding will be before or after Sybil's?" asks Lavinia, turning to Mary.

Mary, who has not said a single word during this entire exchange – her head elsewhere, her stance oddly meek – finds that her tongue is too thick for speech. The corners of her mouth lift to form an insincere smile.

"Well, Richard and I—"

"Oh, Matthew!" says Isobel, her words too convenient an interruption not to have been sent by God Himself. "There you are."

It is relief that reaches Mary first and it is panic that reaches her second. Her thankful sigh is swallowed and it is replaced by her heart, twisting uncomfortably as it tries to break free from her ribcage, begging for release. _Matthew_. He approaches them slowly, spine straight and cane in hand, trying so very hard not to look at her. As he drifts ever closer, her eyes burn and they are clouded by memory, looking at – without seeing – the man who she cannot be with and she cannot be without.

The air between them is palpably charged with words left unsaid, but nobody is paying them enough attention to realise.

Nobody except for Violet, that is.

"Mother," says Matthew, ducking his head to place a kiss to her cheek.

His voice sounds strangled, distant; the expression on his face sheepish and somewhat thoughtful. He smiles what would be better described as a grimace and Violet notices, frowning, that he seems to be short of breath. His eyes are unable to stay in one place for too long and despite the apparent progress he has been making in terms of his recovery, he grips his cane like a lifeline. He is standing on unsteady feet.

"Hello," he says and he has taken Lavinia's hand.

He squeezes it once, the pressure he applies tight enough to momentarily whiten his knuckles, and as Lavinia turns to him – her adoring gaze something he knows he does not deserve – his eyes flash with guilt. Guilt that is missed in the blink of an eye, but not to Violet. She sees everything of importance and she is able to recognise the same feelings of remorse in Mary's eyes, which are as far from the couple as they can possibly be.

"How are the preparations coming along?"

Lavinia smiles.

"Much the same as last time," she replies. "But this wedding will go ahead, I'm sure of it!"

The group share a quiet, yet mirthless laugh in reference to the present wedding's previous postponement. Their cheerfulness, however forced, leaves a bitter taste in Violet's mouth. She wishes she could be as ignorant as they appear to be – but the resigned, haunted faces of Mary and Matthew as they stand apart from their company, and apart from each other, are harder for her to forget.

She can't pretend that all is well when it so obviously is not.

Never one to ignore facts once she is in possession of them, Violet unabashedly meets the eyes of her eldest granddaughter with a depth that makes the girl's legs weaken beneath her. Mary swallows, hard; wondering what she knows and how she knows it. Panic rises within her. She cannot look away. Violet's eyes seem to speak to her.

_I'm not_, they say. _Are you?_


	3. April, 1919

_I hate to repeat myself, but I would just like to say thank you for your continued support! Here's the third chapter. It is set a month before the previous one._

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><p><span><strong>April, 1919<strong>

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><p>"Well, I couldn't, could I?"<p>

It is posed as a question, but Mary knows better than to disagree with the only answer there is. It is the only answer there must ever be.

Her breath catches.

"Of course not," she says.

"However much I might want to."

Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly in surprise.

"Absolutely not."

Mary and Matthew stop dancing.

Two magnets – one north, one south – act upon an impulse quelled for far, far too long. Lips meet in a kiss that is slow and gentle, almost hesitant in nature. It is a kiss that is nothing more than a lingering glance, but it is one that robs Mary of breath and Matthew of clarity.

They sigh into one another. A hand is on each of his shoulders. The grip around her waist is slack and it is held together by hesitant fingers. They are aware of noise coming from the gramophone, but it is white noise that slips further and further from consciousness the more sure their hold on one another becomes.

He leans in for a second kiss, noses brushing before lips dare to touch. The tenderness of him, of them makes her stomach flutter in a way that is alien to her after years upon years of unfulfilled want, need, love, lust. Gloved hands slip to Matthew's neck. His lips are warm and soft and as insistent as she remembers them to be, and it isn't long before she can feel his tongue – _his tongue!_ – tracing the outline of her lips, and she is opening her mouth to him, his arms tightening around her waist – _her waist!_ – as they move irrevocably closer together.

A moan is heard. It is so quiet it is impossible to know from whose lips it escaped. It breaks through their ardent state of delirium, causing them to part with wide eyes and trembling limbs. Minds race in time with the frantic beating of lovesick hearts.

"_Matthew_," is a breathless gasp.

"_Mary_," is a softly spoken endearment.

She forgets her protest as he kisses her again, just the once, and she lets him. She wants him to. Subconsciously, the pressure of his fingers increase against the fabric of her dress and an overwhelming sense of heat rushes through her. It is too much and too little at the same time. She pulls back to study his face – the darkened eyes, the reddened cheeks, the lips she has great difficulty tearing her gaze from – and finds that she could not stop this even if she wanted to.

It is the way in which he is looking at her that forces her to say, "_We can't_," but the words do not leave her lips easily. Even as she speaks, she is fingering his tie with an instinct, an impulse that should shock her.

Something should.

She watches Matthew smile at words he knows only to be true; the devastation he so obviously feels is reflected in his expression. His hopelessness knocks the air right out of her lungs. It renders her speechless.

This time, _she_ kisses _him_ and they do not part until it is absolutely necessary to do so.

His lips ghost her cheek, her jaw, her ear.

"I know," he whispers. His voice cracks.

Mary meets eyes that brim with understanding, longing, compunction that is wholly disregarded the moment his lips press to her neck. She clutches at his shoulders. There is nothing slow, nothing gentle about the way he kisses her there. He explores her skin with purpose, as if he is looking for something she knows he will never find. She gasps, the search continuing, his hands taking her hands as the feel of silk is replaced by that of skin.

He is careful not to crease her gloves as he removes them, placing them blindly into pockets he never knew he had. Unable to resist, his hands move to trace skin previously left untouched. Her back feels soft beneath his fingertips and she trembles at the contact. It is the combination of skin on skin and lips on lips that causes Mary, definitely Mary, to moan in a manner that one would not consider to be ladylike.

She feels Matthew smirk into her mouth. She has loosened his tie without conscious thought and she lets it hang limply around his neck, lacking purpose. Fingers lace into hair that just begs to be mussed and she feels his groan more than she hears it, the low buzz making her pause for thought.

They break the kiss. His eyes are dark, darker than she has ever seen them, darker after ten kisses than they were after three, and she wonders what they will look like after thirty or forty, fifty or sixty. Excitement of a kind that is different from that she has felt before courses through her veins. It is excitement laced with wonder, excitement that blossoms without fear and without force. Mary soon comes to realise that what she feels now is welcome, as wrong in mind as it is right in heart.

He leans into her, but she stops him with her words.

"Not here," she gasps.

He nods in understanding.

"Follow me," he whispers.

Bare hand in bare hand, they walk to a door beneath the stairs. His breath is heavy, laboured; Mary's pace fast, desperate as she uncharacteristically lets him take the lead. Matthew opens the door, feels for a light, but it is Mary who presses her lips to his in a hungry kiss, pushing pause and protest away from where it is no longer needed. She kisses him again, and again, and again.

The door is kicked shut behind them, the needle of the gramophone making a scratching sound as the song comes to an end. Honour becomes a thing of the past.

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><p>"Where are we?"<p>

The room is bathed in darkness, a single lit lamp by the side of the bed – built for one, but occupied by two – the only thing keeping them in sight of one another. Heavy limbs lie entwined among sheets that are warm and crumpled, hearts fighting to keep to a steady rhythm, breath filling silence that thoughts not yet able to be spoken aloud take solace in.

Mary feels detached from her body. Her skin is far too tight to be her own, hands touching what she knows they should not. There is an indifference about the way she lets him close the infinitesimal space between them. She is unable to do it herself because all she can do is _think_, as if time had stopped and started, the moment they shared living within the pause; after the before, but before the after had interrupted and made this a reality.

"My old room," Matthew replies.

His fingers trace a circular pattern over her shoulder. She shivers, but not from pleasure. A coldness has began to seep into her bones. Guilt is beginning to stab at her gut.

"Of course."

The house does not have many bedrooms on the ground floor and so it seems rather fitting for him to have taken her here. It's ironic, she supposes, that the four walls he spent months within, coming to terms with the fact he would never make love to a woman, are the four walls in which he has lost his virginity, in which he thinks he has taken the virginity of another.

He has not.

Matthew frowns. Her head is a welcome weight upon his chest, but there is a distance between them that even the feel of his skin on her skin cannot bridge. He brushes hair from her forehead to look down at her properly. Her expression is a bit too pensive for his liking and concern naturally creases his brow.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

She swallows thickly, resisting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of his question. Are all men this obtuse?

"Yes," she replies. "I'm more than alright, I think."

_That's the problem._

He rests his cheek against the top of her head, sighing softly.

"God, Mary." She shivers again. "Do you know what this means?"

His eyes are instinctively drawn to the clothes strewn about the floor. It is as if he is only just realising what it is they have done.

"Yes." She nuzzles further into him, inhaling his scent and trying to commit to memory all of what was never hers to know in the first place. She blinks moisture from her eyes. There is a first time and a last time for everything. Occasionally, the first time can also be the last. "It means that we're selfish. It means that we've broken promises we had no right to break."

He stares at her.

"No, I meant—"

But she is out of the bed before he can finish. She leaves the warmth of his embrace for the cold evening air that bites at her skin in a way she feels is much more deserving. Goosebumps prickle her naked form. She retrieves her clothes with her back to him, his eyes unable to leave the curve of her spine and all that lies beneath it.

"We must get up," she tells him, hurriedly throwing on her chemise. "Everyone will be wondering where we are."

Reluctantly, he sits up and stretches out on the bed. Wincing audibly, his face twists in pain. There is a dull ache at the base of his spine that burns as he moves and he curses under his breath, trying to settle into a more comfortable position.

Mary does not dare to look at him. Her cheeks flush with a different kind of guilt and she feels idiotic for forgetting what is, ultimately, standing (with the support of a cane he damns all the way to hell and back) in the way of them having this – whatever _this_ is – every day for the rest of their lives.

He reaches for her hand, but she flinches and turns away from him. He immediately withdraws.

"They won't," he tries to assure her.

"They will," she manages to assure him.

The fight leaves his body in an instant and he lets her dress without further complaint. Leaning against the headboard, he closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, willing away the pain in his lower back. When his eyes reopen, they find Mary standing in front of him, hands on hips, throwing him an exasperated look he would find amusing under any other circumstances.

Her dress is back on, the creases that now adorn it easy to explain if need be. She kneels, using the bed as leverage, to replace her shoes and stockings. Each moment that passes in which he has yet to move takes more patience away from her until she finally snaps, standing to her full height.

"Matthew, you must get up," she says. "You need to go back to Crawley House and retrieve Lavinia's things."

Oh.

_Lavinia_.

Her name hits him squarely in the gut, physically taking him aback. His eyes meet Mary's and he knows that she feels it as well as he; and yet he wonders how she is able to speak of her with such calm when the mere thought of her, all smiles and laughter and nervous energy, reduces him to a shrivelling wreck. A cold, vice-like grip has taken hold of his pounding heart. Matthew swallows thickly.

"Doctor Clarkson says she is to stay here tonight," Mary continues, her eyes scanning the room for a mirror. "If she has caught the flu, it will be easier for him to tend to her here. With the others."

He nods, remembering that there is illness in the house and wondering how he ever came to forget.

"Of course," he murmurs.

She has found a mirror, a small one in the corner of the room that she uses to try and salvage what is left of her hair's shape. Clumsy fingers attempt to copy the work of another's more capable, more nimble hands with pins and twist that she is familiar with, but not in a way that is of any help to her.

Her brow raises in question as she catches Matthew's reflection watching her, wonderingly.

_Get up._

She doesn't have to say it.

Rolling his eyes, he pulls back the sheets and goes to stand. Mary averts her eyes, for her benefit more than his, and only smiles once she knows that he will not see.

It doesn't take him very long to dress, his appearance not as unkempt as hers appears to be. Once Mary is happy that her hair looks somewhat more presentable, she crosses the room as if to leave, her eyes anywhere but on him. She manages to reach the door, but his hand on her arm prevents her from going any further, her body tingling pleasantly as it remembers just what those hands are able to do to her. She sighs defeatedly.

His voice is quiet, pleading.

"Mary, wait. Can't you see? This changes everything. I—"

Her heart leaps out of her chest.

"Please," she whimpers. He has never heard her beg in such a way and he doesn't like how vulnerable it makes her sound. He doesn't like how he is able to leave her defenceless and feeling what he has no right to make her feel. "Don't say it."

His brow furrows and he suddenly feels very angry. He doesn't understand why he can't say what he means. Their problem is that they never do. They never say what they mean and perhaps if they had, perhaps if they'd have been less stubborn and more strong, less proud and more patient, this would not be their life. Their life would be _theirs_, Mary's and Matthew's, not Mary's life and Matthew's life; close, but never close enough.

He cannot let this go.

"But it's true!"

The passion in his voice melts Mary's expression into one of fondness. She longs to say to him what she will not allow him to say to her, but before she can give into temptation – before she can give into temptation _again_ – she remembers herself. She remembers who she is and what it is she has done. She hardens from the inside out.

"Your wedding is in three days," she says in the most level tone she can muster.

He shrugs, hating himself for it.

_Lavinia_.

"It doesn't have to be."

If his words surprise her, she doesn't let it show.

"Oh, Matthew. You don't mean that," she replies. "You really don't."

He pauses to ponder, conflicted eyes meeting the disappointment in hers. His face falls. She's right, of course. She rarely isn't. His heart sinks as it comes to the realisation that he could never throw Lavinia over, not now, not after this.

He grows desperate.

"Mary, I love—" _you_ is spoken into her mouth as she presses her lips to his.

Kissing him is the only way she knows how to make him be quiet. This is a kiss that tastes like goodbye; it is the one she had intended to give him earlier and walk away from with her heart still partially intact. She does not let it linger for longer than it needs to. Nor does she give him the chance to kiss her back.

Her expression is one of regret as she pulls away from him, the distance between them a matter of inches, but it feels as if he were on one side of the world and she were on the other.

His chest aches, eyes burning with tears he will not let fall.

She looks him in the eyes and says, "I am marrying Richard regardless of whether you marry Lavinia."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she cannot bare to hear him say it.

"But—"

"We made love?"

It is a whisper, an intimate secret that must stay just that: _secret_.

"Well, yes," he replies. "Surely that must count for something. Surely that must mean something to you."

His eyes plead for her to agree with him. And she does.

"More than you know," she admits in a voice that is soft, but her words only seem to aggravate him further.

"Then, I don't understand you!" he all but shouts. "Richard Carlisle is arrogant and pompous. A man like that never make you happy! Mary, _please_. Why must you marry him?"

She matches his anger, his passion, equally.

"Because I am able to recognise a mistake when I have made one!"

Her words cut through the still air between them, a bullet straight to the heart. Silence falls. Mary lowers her eyes, Matthew's sharp intake of breath telling her all that she needs to know. She bites her lip, trying to ignore the darkness of his expression, and continues before she loses her confidence.

"And as for your, quite frankly, juvenile opinion of my fiancé, you should know that I couldn't care less whether you like him or not. All that matters is that _I_ like him. And I do. Very much."

Matthew's hands form into fists.

"Do you? Do you, really?"

She gives him a warning look and takes hold of the door handle.

"Mary." His voice caresses her ear. He is close, _too close_, yet she still strains to hear him. "Don't be like this."

She shakes her head at him, incredulously.

"Like what?" she demands.

He cannot think of an answer to that question. So, he starts again. They lock eyes.

"What we've done is wrong and I'm not saying that it was right, but we do need to talk about it. Properly." He pauses. "We can't pretend that this hasn't happened, Mary. _You_ can't pretend that this hasn't happened."

_I know._

He speaks as if his scent does not linger upon her skin, as if she could ever forget what she knows she never will.

"Can't I?" she scoffs.

Her chest feels tight, her lungs starved of oxygen. It is getting increasingly more difficult for her to breathe when he is looking at her in such a way, but she must. She must breathe and in this room, with this man, a million broken promises and a million more broken dreams reduced to nothing but ash at their feet, she can't. She physically can't.

Mary makes a decision.

She turns the door handle, breaks the eye contact and takes a shuddering breath.

"Watch me," she says.


	4. September, 1938

_I was hoping to upload this chapter much earlier than I am. However, due to a number of technical issues I will not bore you with the details of, and owing to the fact that this chapter would not stop growing, I have been unable to. Sorry! It's better late than never, though – right?_

_Your words really do mean more to me than you know. I honestly cannot thank you enough for reading, reviewing and following this story. Hugs to all! _

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><p><span><strong>September, 1938<strong>

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><p>Gloved hands wring in front of her as it – her house, her home – comes into view. There are many words she can think of to describe Haxby Park. It is large and vulgar, sad when they first moved in with its bare walls and missing furniture, but even sadder now that the children have grown and its modernities seem to have lost their novelty value. It is said that a house can sense a feeling in the same way an animal can; and hers can only sense sorrow.<p>

Oh, Haxby has bore witness to great joy, the happiest of days and the most fond of memories. But it seems that when one's life begins because another's has ended, when one's family thrives on the plight of another's which could have, so easily, been one's own, it is harder to find comfort in the comfortable and easier to find love with the loveless.

Mary does not enjoy dancing on other people's graves, but she feels she has been left with very little choice.

The smile she wears is slight as she steps into the hall. Barrow is there to greet her with his usual _good afternoon, milady _and his_ how are you today, milady? _and the expected_ Sir Richard is waiting for you in the drawing room, milady. _Today, Richard waits in the library. There is a crease in Barrow's brow, a flicker of something behind eyes that struggle to meet her own that speak all of what the butler will not. Mary lets him take her outerwear, thanking him politely as she excuses herself to go in search of her husband.

A knot forms in the pit of her stomach.

"Hello, dear."

The turning of pages, _newspaper_ pages, echo in the quiet of the library. Richard does not look up as Mary approaches, but there is a fond smile tugging at his lips. She weakly returns it.

"Hello," she says, eyes scanning the room around her. "Where's Josephine?"

Richard wets his lips.

"In her room," he replies. "Writing letters."

The knot slackens just enough for her to tease, "No doubt the young Mr. Foyle will be on her list of correspondence."

Richard huffs. Resisting the urge to chuckle at her husband's obvious disapproval, Mary crosses the room to sit in the chair opposite his.

"She's writing a letter to Robert, actually," he informs her. There is a slight pause before he continues, adding, "At least, that's what she told me."

Her raised eyebrow is an amused one.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Those two are far closer than we realise." He tuts. "The poor dear. Josie never seems to know what to do in his absence."

Mary hums her agreement.

"Except wait for his return," she points out, wondering when he became so perceptive, wondering when he came to know their children better than her.

It hurts that their daughter will only reply to _Josie_ if it is said in the soft Scottish lilt of her father's downy voice, the one kept separate from that used in the presence of anyone else. It shouldn't, she knows, for it is a petty jealousy, but it is one that has been present since the day her eldest was born; the storm reserved for Mama, but the calm afterwards for Father only.

Robert is a different matter entirely. The pet names never stuck with him – Bobby, Robbie, Bertie, _son_. Unlike his sister, he looks for the approval of no one. He is his own man (if thirteen year old boys can be considered as such), all fingers and thumbs, floppy hair and toothy smiles.

She is about to ask him what it is he is so engrossed in reading when he places the paper down on the arm of his chair and leans forward enough to make her frown. He is looking at her with knowing eyes that appear to be even colder than usual.

She takes a deep breath. Her irritation is evident – as is her concern. Mary has never been one for dramatics.

"What is it?" she asks.

"There was a telephone call from the Abbey while you were out."

The knot in her stomach pulls tighter.

"Oh," she says. "What did Molesley want?"

Richard shakes his head. There is a sadness in the lines that crease his forehead, a sadness he attempts to wipe away with ageing fingers that are stained with ink.

"It wasn't the butler," he replies. His voice is too calm. "It was Catherine."

She stares at him, the lack of alarm in his expression only increasing the alarm in hers. There are so many questions she wants to ask him, so many that she loses the ability to speak altogether. He rises from his chair to place what she's sure he feels is a comforting hand on her shoulder, but all the hand manages to do is heighten her distress.

"I'm sorry, Mary." For once, he actually sounds it. "She said Lavinia has gotten worse."

Her blood turns to ice.

"Worse?"

She blindly reaches for his hand, clinging onto it for dear life.

"She said it is very unlikely that she will last through the night."

The sound that escapes Mary's lips is somewhere between a bitter laugh and a disbelieving cry. A choked sob follows it, her eyes blinking rapidly in a feeble attempt to hide her tears and – by extension – her weakness. Standing on unsteady legs, she shrugs off his hand to walk towards the door. She is dazed, in a state of shock that makes it impossible for rationality to present itself.

Richard is frowning.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "Where are you going?"

Clouded eyes narrow at him, unappreciative of the accusation in his tone. She is about to leave, but he has followed her to the other side of the room and taken her hand in a tight grip she does not have the strength to free herself from.

"Where do you think?" she bites back. "She's dying, Richard. I need to see her."

He shakes his head, looks at Mary as if hers is not screwed on properly.

"And do you really think she'll want to see you?" he asks, his voice harsh. "You said it yourself. She's _dying, _my dear. She should be with her family."

"I am family," she insists.

But Richard just laughs in her face, his lips curling into an unsavoury smile.

"How you have the audacity to call that woman family after what you've done to her is completely beyond me."

Mary swallows, her eyes flashing with anger. A moment passes in which breath leaves lips faster, louder. She bunches her hand up into a fist and slips it easily from his larger one, Richard not bothering to reclaim it and Mary accepting this as a surrender she feels is long overdue.

"And what is that, pray?" she challenges him.

He is closer than he was before, giving her a warning look that no longer has the ability to make her flinch. Twenty years do that to a person, for now all she feels is numb, indifferent. If anything, she's amused. These days, she is a threat to him and it makes her wonder who is really in power, who is really in control.

Richard does not miss a beat.

"You know precisely what."

She scoffs.

"God, I have never known anyone who can hold a grudge for as long as you do," she snarls.

Richard shrugs. She brushes past him, opens the door and passes through it. She doesn't look back; he doesn't raise the slightest objection. Rubbing his tired eyes, Richard watches her as she walks away. Anger is a dull buzz in his veins, fading more and more until she is out of sight and it, too, is gone.

He closes the library door.

"Perhaps that is because I have a longer memory than most," he says quietly to himself.

* * *

><p>Mary does not wait for the motor to be brought around. She walks a quarter of an hour car journey in thirty minutes, legs moving so fast they do not feel as if they belong to her. She seems to stumble down the path leading to her childhood home; vision blinded by tears, throat raw from the exertion. The air is cold, harsh as it hits her skin. The beauty, the grace, the elegance of Downton Abbey is not as striking to her as it usually is, for when she enters the house, her thoughts are elsewhere, up the stairs and across the landing with a woman in a bed she loses her colour in, struggling for breath and the chance to say a proper goodbye.<p>

The hall is empty. Of course, this is to be expected in a house that is ran with half the staff her father had employed back in the day. The current Earl of Grantham is efficient to a fault, a man who has been thrust into something he does not want, someone who does not enjoy paying others to do for him what he could easily do for himself.

The contrast between Downton and Haxby – Matthew and Richard – is remarkable.

Mary is interrupted from her thoughts by a quiet voice.

"Lady Mary?"

She turns to find Molesley looking grave and paler than she has ever seen him. Hiding her surprise at how outwardly affected he seems to be, she offers him a watery smile and bows her head, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Molesley. The door was open; I came straight in." She pauses. He appears to be waiting for something, something which she is afraid she will not be able to give. She looks down at her feet, adding, "Lady Catherine telephoned earlier. She spoke of Lady Grantham's condition and I was wondering whether I'd be able to see her."

The butler's expression morphs into one of apology.

"That won't be possible, milady. His Lordship said she is to have no visitors," he explains. "She is in a very fragile state and he thinks it would be best if he kept the amount of people around her to a minimum. Family only, he said."

_I am family._

She does not bother repeating herself.

"Of course he did," she replies, resigned.

Her smile is far too bright to be genuine. She wants to argue with him, she wants to demand that Molesley take her to see Lavinia at once. It is in her right to do so. He is a servant; his job is to obey.

Mary shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Now that she has arrived at the house, she is unsure whether she should stay or stay away. Fortunately for her, Isobel takes that decision out of her hands.

She descends the stairs. Her spine is curved after eighty years of endurance, her pace slower than it once was. The day dress she wears is simple, ten years behind what is the fashion, and she looks tired – so, so tired – as she meets Mary's eyes, surprise evident in the lines that crease her face.

She does not kiss the younger woman's cheek in greeting. Instead, she frowns at her.

Molesley discreetly makes himself scarce.

"Cousin Isobel," Mary says.

Isobel gets straight to the point.

"What are you doing here, Mary?"

She almost sighs.

"Catherine called. She said Lavinia has gotten worse."

If they were discussing anything else, _anyone_ else, this is the point in the conversation when Isobel might have smiled. She admires Catherine. Her granddaughter is a headstrong young woman who will disobey her father's wishes if she does not agree with them. She and her grandmother are very similar in that respect, as they are in many others.

"She has," Isobel confirms. "A lot worse, I'm afraid. The chances of her surviving the night are close to nil."

Hearing this in Isobel's quiet, sombre voice as opposed to her husband's seemingly indifferent one makes what is being said all the more real to Mary. There are no two ways about it: Lavinia is dying. Lavinia is going to die fifty years before her time and there is nothing she, nor Isobel, can do about it.

It becomes increasingly more difficult for her to swallow as she struggles to hold back tears.

"That's awful. I'm so sorry," Mary murmurs. She takes a deep breath. "I was hoping to see her, but Molesley said that Matthew doesn't want her to have any visitors."

Isobel nods. Her eyes are wet, too.

"He doesn't," she replies, the bluntness of her tone suggesting that, like her granddaughter, she does not agree. "But I have forced him to leave her side to go down to the kitchens and have something to eat. He's terribly cut up and being around her constantly isn't doing him, or her, any good. Catherine is with her now. I'd say you have a good twenty minutes before Matthew's return."

She gestures to the stairs behind her.

"Go on," Isobel says. "You know which bedroom it is."

Mary nods, briefly touching her hand as they pass one another on the stairs.

"Thank you," she whispers.

And she means it.

* * *

><p>She expects the room to be dark when she enters, but it is bright. Too bright. The curtains have been drawn, the blue sky outside the house juxtaposing the dying woman within it. Mary's legs feel weak. She barely manages a step into the room before Catherine notices her, rising from her seat and ushering Mary out into the hall. She clicks the door shut behind them. Lifeless eyes stare into eyes equally as lifeless.<p>

When Catherine speaks, her voice is small, broken, lost.

"He told you about my call, then."

Practicality is in her bones like it is in her grandmother's, like Mary wishes it were in her father's. She is blown away by the courage of this girl, this teenager, and not for the first time either. Bobbed hair frames her face, partially hiding the red, angry blotches that adorn her skin. Her hands smooth imaginary creases from her trousers before Mary stills her fiddling, taking both hands in hers and squeezing them tightly.

She nods.

"He did," Mary replies. "Oh, my dear. I am so sorry."

Catherine stiffens. Her back is straight and her jaw is set in a fashion that one might call determined, but she allows her cousin to draw strength from her hands, even if they contain the last bit of strength left in her.

"Please, don't," she replies. She won't accept anyone's pity. "She's in a bad way, Mary. A really bad way. The doctor has assured us that she is as comfortable as she can possibly be, but the pain relief is so strong that she's not herself. She's not making any sense."

"What do you mean?"

"She seems distant." Catherine's voice grows quieter and quieter. "Faraway."

_As do you_.

Mary manages to stop herself from saying this at the last possible moment.

"Well, I have come to see her and I am not going anywhere until I have," she replies, sounding more determined than she feels.

Catherine studies her face. Mary's concern is evident and there is almost an air of desperation about the way her eyes dart from place to place, eventually settling on the closed bedroom door that she has been denied passage into. Taking a deep breath, Catherine pats her hand before she releases it, turning her back to open the door.

She hesitates.

"Very well," she says. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

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><p>After ensuring that her mother is comfortable beneath pillows that are larger and more luxurious than Lavinia has ever been used to, Catherine gives her forehead one final kiss before leaving the two women alone. She does not close the door behind her.<p>

Mary has to suppress a gasp as she takes in the full extent of Lavinia's appearance. She is almost unrecognisable. Her long, golden hair is tucked behind her head, glistening with sweat and knotted to the point of pain. The peachy nightgown she wears swallows her reduced form and does nothing for her pale complexion, making it obvious to Mary that it has been chosen by a man.

Lavinia is still on the bed, her limbs laid out neatly as if she were already a corpse. Her eyes are only half-closed; her breath loud and ragged in the otherwise silent room.

There is a part of Mary – the weak part; the part that has dealt enough with death and decay and would much rather run from a responsibility that isn't actually hers – that does not want to be here. But there is another part of her – a stronger part of her – that hates to leave things unresolved.

Whilst saying goodbye is always hard, not saying it is even harder.

"Mary," Lavinia croaks.

At the sound of her name, Mary starts. Lavinia's voice is so quiet and so unexpected, but she hears it all the same.

Cautiously, she steps closer to the bed and perches on the chair beside it. She smiles only for Lavinia's benefit, but stops once she realises that Lavinia will not smile back. Instead, she reaches for Mary's hand and holds it as tightly as she can, which isn't very tight at all. Mary has to swallow a lump in her throat as she tries not to think about how light and limp Lavinia's hand already feels in her own.

They sit in a silence that is continually broken by the sound of Lavinia's wheezing. Mary starts, again, as the woman in the bed begins to cough so powerfully that her whole body shakes with the effort of it all. She watches, helplessly, as Lavinia struggles to catch her breath. Her hand leaves Mary's to cover her mouth as if the cough were contagious, as if what she has is a mere cold and not cancer of the lungs.

_He has this cough, you see. A weak chest._

Matthew's voice rings in her ears, speaking words that are almost two decades old. Mary finds herself wondering whether this fate has been waiting for Lavinia since the day she was born, since the day her father died and left her alone in the world, left her an orphan.

It doesn't take long for her to spring into action, picking up the glass of water that is on the bedside table and holding it to Lavinia's lips. She almost chokes as she takes in too much of the liquid at once, Mary wide-eyed as she places the cup down and adjusts the pillows behind Lavinia's head to ensure that she is comfortable.

Lavinia feels nothing. Exhaustion is now so familiar to her that it has become commonplace. The drugs have numbed the pain in her body, but they have numbed everything else along with it. Her eyes are unfocused and squinting as they shy away from the light; sleep all too tempting to her, even though she knows that losing consciousness in her state means that she might never regain it.

Surprisingly, she is no longer afraid of death. It is a certainty and it is one that she will welcome when the time comes.

Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, "I'm so glad you're here."

Mary nods, bravely.

"So am I," she replies, letting Lavinia retake her hand.

"I'm dying, you know," she says.

She doesn't even sound like herself, her words so hopeless and so definite that Mary can only sniffle in response.

"I know." She stares down at their joined hands. "Catherine told me."

A ghost of a smile spreads across Lavinia's lips.

"She's a good girl, my Catherine," she says. Her voice is as proud as it is dreamlike, fingers stroking over Mary's. "My baby. My only baby."

There is a sort of innocence in her eyes, an innocence that makes Mary's heart beat faster. Lavinia might not be as young as she once was, but she is still younger than one should be when lying on one's deathbed, drowning in a sea of white cloth and soft silk, skin discoloured and in need of some sunlight. It makes Mary want to sob, for this is all so wrong and Lavinia deserves none of it. None of it at all.

She squeezes her hand, panic slowly rising within her when Lavinia does not squeeze back. It seems that she has drifted off into a light sleep. Mary has to gently shake her shoulder in order to wake her.

"Lavinia?"

Her eyes are wild as they open. Mary is surprised to find tears streaming down her cheeks, but there is no physical evidence of her crying as she speaks.

"I'm tired, Mary. So tired." She attempts to clear away the hoarseness in her throat. "Aren't you?"

Mary frowns.

"Of what?" she asks.

"Pretending." There is a pause. A breathy, bitter laugh escapes Lavinia's lips and it sounds almost as painful as it feels. Mary shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I was going to say lying, but you've never done that, have you? Not really."

Mary's stomach flips in what she hopes is not realisation.

"Lavinia—"

"I _know_." Brown eyes widen, fixed on emerald ones that glisten and harden in a way that really does hurt. Never has Mary heard Lavinia's tone sound so firm. "I know about Robert. I know about everything."

Mary's heart stops.

"How?"

It is her only coherent thought.

"Richard."

Bile rises in Mary's throat. She feels betrayed, cheated – but, most of all, she feels ashamed, for this is what Lavinia should be feeling, but Lavinia cannot feel a thing. Bowing her head, she closes her eyes and tries to get her head around what she has just been told.

"When did he tell you?"

"After Robert was born. You were so caught up in your grief that—"

Mary has to interrupt her. Time has done little to heal that particular wound and she cannot bear to hear anymore about it.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Lavinia attempts to laugh.

"What difference would it have made, truly?"

Mary shakes her head.

"But this doesn't make any sense," she thinks aloud.

The smile that Lavinia puts on is one of sympathy, but it looks almost patronising.

"You're not the only one who likes to pretend, Mary," she replies, wishing that she had a handkerchief to pass to her friend – because, despite everything, that is what she is and that is what she always will be – as a few stray tears leak from her eyes.

Mary quickly brushes them away.

"Oh, Lavinia," she sighs. "I am so, _so_ sorry. How you must hate me."

Lavinia squeezes her hand.

"I could never do that," she replies. She then waits a beat. Even though her mind has been heavily induced by drugs, she still knows that one must choose one's moment carefully when speaking to Lady Mary Carlisle. "Matthew doesn't mean to—"

Mary cuts her off. It is as if she knows what she is about to say before she has even said it.

"Don't defend him," she pleads. Her words are desperate. "Don't defend us. Not after what we've done to you."

"But—"

"Please." Mary's tone is firm. "Matthew doesn't deserve your forgiveness and I certainly don't."

Lavinia goes quiet, her mind moving onto something else entirely.

"I remember when I met Robert for the first time. Do you?" Mary shakes her head. He was born during a period in her life that was is fuzzy to her she can hardly remember it having happened at all. "You were sat in the nursery, this dark figure in the corner of the room with a baby in your arms. He was wearing as much white as you were black. Richard was there, breathing down my neck."

Mary has to laugh at that, however much the memory may hurt.

"He's always got to be breathing down someone's," she reasons, arching a brow.

Lavinia smiles.

"Matthew was downstairs," she continues, undeterred. "He wouldn't come up. At the time, I didn't think it was odd. Not that odd, anyway. But, then, I saw him. I saw Robert. I looked into his eyes – his blue, blue eyes – and I saw what I never wanted to see. I saw—"

She cannot go on, for she is suddenly gasping for breath, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as Mary stands and begins to frantically shake her. She calls her name – once, twice, three times – but it does not reach Lavinia through the thick fog that envelopes her like a warm, soft blanket she never wants to leave the comfort of. She feels content as she lets her eyes close, her body sag and her breathing stop.

"Mama!"

Mary looks up to find Catherine running into the room, Isobel and Matthew hot on her heels. The young girl heads straight from her mother, looking over her for any signs of damage and acting as if Mary isn't even there. She steps back, allowing Isobel to take her place as she desperately searches for a pulse. Mary and Matthew stand beside them – together, but separately – sharing a single loaded look that tells Mary she should have shut the door.

"She's breathing! There's a pulse!" Isobel suddenly announces. It flickers beneath her fingertips. "It's okay. She's okay."

She strokes Lavinia's cheek with the tenderness of a mother as Matthew wipes tears of worry, of panic from his eyes. He looks as tired as Isobel, Mary's chest tightening as he sighs. Never before has she seen him look so utterly defeated.

"She's obviously not okay, Mother," he fumes. The ferocity in his voice is not what Mary had been expecting. She frowns at him and he frowns back, adding, "I think you should go."

The room seems to be smaller now that five people occupy it instead of two. Mary looks around it, her gut plummeting as she notices just how angry Catherine seems to be. Her lips are a straight, thin line, but it is her eyes that worry Mary the most. They are hard eyes, eyes that see too much, eyes that do not want to believe.

They ignore Mary. Her father, too.

"Now, wait a moment," Isobel is quick to defend, but Catherine does not let her continue. She shakes her head.

"No, Papa is right."

It does not escape Mary's knowledge that _Papa_ is forced out of her mouth, whereas the other three words are not.

Isobel gasps. "What?"

"Mary needs to leave," Catherine says, matter-of-factly. "She has unsettled Mama and Mama needs rest."

Mary bites her lip.

"Catherine," she starts.

The girl's chin quivers.

"Just go, Mary!" she cries.

Lavinia whimpers on the bed. Catherine's sobs are ugly and uncontrollable once she finally lets them escape, stepping away from her father's embrace as he tries to comfort her and leaning against her grandmother instead. Mary's heart aches.

"Please, I am begging you. Just go!"

Mary would fight back, but she has never been able to deny her goddaughter anything.

"Okay," she whispers. "I'm going."

Catherine nods.

"Good," she spits. "Because there is no place for you here. Do you understand?"

Mary can feel her legs shaking beneath her.

"I understand," she says. _I understand._

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><p><em>It's a good job yesterday was Valentine's Day! You might want to go and read some fluff now. (I'm sorry I'm not sorry.)<em>


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